shout of it only reached her in a whisper.

The boy and the girl leapt forward like bucks. They reached the bank and
struggled up it. The hungry waters sprang at them like a living thing,
grasping their feet and legs as though with hands; a stick as it whirled
by them struck the lad upon the shoulder, and where it struck the clothes
were rent away and red blood appeared. Almost he fell, but this time it
was Rachel who supported him. Then one more struggle and they rolled
exhausted on the ground just clear of the lip of the racing flood.

Thus through tempest, threatened by the waters of death from which he
snatched her, and companioned by heaven's lightnings, did Richard Darrien
come into the life of Rachel Dove.

Presently, having recovered their breath, they sat up and looked at each
other by lightning light, which was all there was. He was a handsome lad
of about seventeen, though short for his years; sturdy in build, very
fair-skinned and curiously enough with a singular resemblance to Rachel,
except that his hair was a few shades darker than hers. They had the same
clear grey eyes, and the same well-cut features; indeed seen together,
most people would have thought them brother and sister, and remarked upon
their family likeness. Rachel spoke the first.

"Who are you?" she shouted into his ear in one of the intervals of
darkness, "and why did you come here?"

"My name is Richard Darrien," he answered at the top of his voice, "and I
don't know why I came. I suppose something sent me to save you."

"Yes," she replied with conviction, "something sent you. If you had not